


Metamours

by LadyGrey



Series: Metamours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Clueless Sherlock, Confused John, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Happy John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marriage, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Proposals, Sad Sherlock, asexual metamour, canon divergence-first meeting john/mary, dont hate on mary, idek where this falls in the chronology, it could even be post reichenbach, john isnt gay but it doesnt matter, metamours, sherlock doesnt talk about feelings, sherlock has no idea who 2pac is, whatevs, you can really put it anywhere after the great game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally proposes to Mary, but he doesn't think about how Sherlock will feel. Mary surprises them both with her answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamours

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a lot of time thinking about the kind of girl John would fall head over heels for, so I really hope you like Mary!
> 
> This has been betaed by the awesome thecapricious one, but has not been britpicked. Feel free to call me out for being a stupid yank in the comments and I'll fix my britishisms.

“Hey, John,” says Mary, “How do you tell the difference between a male ghost and a female ghost?”

“Umm. . .I dunno?”

“Female ghosts have boooooooobies!” Mary answers, giggling at her own joke.

It's one of the stupidest jokes John has ever heard, but he loves stupid jokes, and Mary knows he loves stupid jokes, and god he loves her and her stupid jokes. He laughs like a loon, lying on his back on the picnic blanket in the park. 

It's early autumn, a beautiful brisk day, and Mary is backlit by the sun, low in the sky, close to setting. John has a ring in his pocket, but he's waiting for sunset to propose.

* * * * * * * * * * *

ONE YEAR AGO, MORE OR LESS

It's impossible to order another pint over the din in John's local. Manchester United scores, everyone loses their bloody minds, and John gives up shouting and simply waves his pint glass around in the air until the bartender notices and pulls him another. 

John could have watched the championship in the flat, but Sherlock hates football ( _dull_ ) and John prefers the camaraderie of his local anyway. Most of the regulars are rooting for Manchester, like John, but among the sea of red are two contingents dressed in blue and cheering for Chelsea. One group has shoved a few tables together in the corner and took it over, booing or cheering extra loudly to make up for their smaller numbers. A group of about five strangers in blue huddle together at the bar, getting completely pissed and taking a great deal more abuse from the Manchester fans surrounding them. 

Manchester is up by one and John is well on the way to pissed himself. He doesn't notice the tiny blonde girl in blue leave her seat, but he does notice when she returns to find it taken by a bearded man in a red Manchester United polo shirt. She smacks the man on the shoulder.

“Hey! Get outta my seat!” She slurs her words, but puts her hands on her hips and glares at the much bigger man. 

“Don't have your name on it sweetheart. You may as well go home, your team's shite anyway!” replies the man.

“Dare ya to say that again,” says the girl, still glaring.

“I said,” laughs the man, “that the blues are shite, and we are kicking your arse already!” 

John must be more pissed than he realizes, because he doesn't see her move, but suddenly the man falls back against the bar, holding his nose. “Fuck!” he shouts, “the fuck you daft bitch!?” 

John moves. It is the championship game, the pub is packed with drunk idiots, and despite her fierce drunkenness, the girl is tiny and far outnumbered by Manchester United fans. He grabs her arm and hauls her out of the pub onto the sidewalk. She resists, but John is strong and determined. 

As soon as they are outside and John releases her arm, she tries to charge back in. The bartender, Jake, is pacifying the man with a bloody nose, who clearly wants to follow the girl but is letting himself be persuaded otherwise by Jake and his mates. Jake quickly looks back and shakes his head at John. _Get her out of here._

John grabs her arm again. “Nononono. That's a bad idea. You have to get out of here.”

“Let go of me!” she slurs, “or do you wanna have a go too?”

John's got a better look at her now. Under the streetlights she looks older, maybe early thirties, but her diminutive height and round cheeks make her seem younger at first glance. Despite himself, he smiles at the tiny fierceness of her, something he knows a little about.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, smiling but not dropping her arm, “have a go.”

That catches her off guard. “Wot?”

“I like a good fight. Let's go. Take a swing.” 

“You're mad,” she says.

“I'm not the one who tried to start a fight in pub full of Red Devils.”

She stares at him blearily for a moment, then her face crumbles into laughter and she grabs her stomach with her free hand. “Oh god, I'm completely pissed,” she giggles.

“Let me walk you home, or share a taxi,” John offers, finally letting go of her arm.

“Aww, hell, it's no fun watching the match alone in my flat with no one to scream at but the telly.”

“That's unfortunate,” John agrees with his most charming and harmless smile. 

She smiles back and holds out her hand. “Mary,” she says.

“John,” he says, and when he shakes her hand he doesn't let it go, “which way to your place, and have you got any beer?”

-

The next morning, he ignores a text from Sherlock and makes her breakfast instead.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

John pulls Mary down on top of him for a kiss. Mary is a first class kisser, and doesn't stop kissing him until he is half hard and rewards her with a growl. 

“God,” he gasps, when she finally lets him up for air, “I love you. I love you, Mary Morstan. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

“I love you too, but let's not be hasty,” she scoots down a bit and settles her head comfortably onto his chest.

“Huh?”

“What about Sherlock? I thought he was the best thing that ever happened to you?”

“That's different,” John says.

“I know,” says Mary, “but it's still important.” 

John's stomach twists. This conversation never goes well, and it's the least convenient time to have it. Fuck. Bloody buggering fuck.

John sighs and steels himself. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope,” says Mary. 

“Really?”

“Of course not, you idiot. I love you. Why would I want you to choose between me and the other people you love? Haven't we had this conversation already?”

“Uh, sort of?”

* * * * * * * * * *

TEN MONTHS AND A FEW DAYS AGO

_We need to talk._

John is just about to crouch over a body when Mary's text arrives. The head is missing, but the brain isn't. It's lying in a messy puddle of blood and cerebrospinal fluid at the top of the body. “Fuck,” he swears. Lestrade's head snaps up but Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. 

“You forgot to call her again,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

“Shut up.” 

“For what it's worth, John, I rather liked this one.”

“Liar. You hate all my girlfriends.”

Sherlock shrugs. “She was the least insipid yet.” 

Well, that's high praise, coming from Sherlock, but it hardly matters now because John's fucked it up again. 

Lestrade clears his throat. “Crime scene?” he reminds them with a long suffering sigh. 

“Yes, right, just let me,” John waves his phone and starts tapping away at the tiny screen.

_God I am so sorry. About to be up to my elbows in corpse. Coffee after? Please Mary?_

“Don't beg, John, it's pathetic.”

John scowls at Sherlock. “Shut up.”

-

Mary is waiting for him at one of their favorite spots, a combination used bookstore and coffee shop with cozy sofas and plenty of quiet nooks for talking. She's drinking her usual green tea and paging through a literary magazine. She's wearing the blue Chelsea pullover John got her after their second date, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. She's perfect, even if she is a Chelsea fan. They shout at each other over matches, even once had angry sex shouting insults at each other's team. John knows he will never, ever, find a girl like her again, and he suddenly wants to cry, but that's ridiculous. He doesn't, obviously.

Well. Best to get it over with. He settles onto the opposite end of the sofa and says “Mary, I am really really. . .”

“Stop,” she says.

“No, Mary, please, just listen, I. . .”

“No, you listen,” she spears him with that same fierce glare he recognized outside the pub, that first night they met. He loves it. He loves her. Fuck. Fuck, he loves her.

“I know what you're going to say,” John says, thinking about how he is going to go back to the flat and crawl into that bottle of scotch on the mantle until he forgets the revelation he just had.

“Bet you a tenner you don't.”

“What?” 

“Take the bet or not?” 

“Uh, yes, okay.” John kind of still wants to cry, actually, so it's good that she's going to do the talking.

“Right,” says Mary, “we need to renegotiate the terms of this relationship. Or, I guess, more accurately, negotiate them in the first place, since we've never actually done that.”

“What?” 

“Close your mouth, idiot.” Mary laughs at him. She doesn't look mad, but she is uncharacteristically serious.

John didn't realize his jaw was hanging open, but he snaps it shut.

“Okay, so, item one. Your life is kind of crazy, and it's nearly impossible for you to keep a date when you're running around with that flatmate of yours on cases. I have a solution, if you wanna hear it.” 

“Uh, okay?”

“No more planning dates. You text me or come see me when you're free. I won't always be free, but that's your problem. I know this puts it all on you, but unless you have a better idea it's the only solution I can think of.”

“You. . .what?”

“Will that work? Maybe I'll text you sometimes too, to see if you're free, but we may as well give up trying to plan ahead, yeah?” Mary is starting to look a little concerned.

“You're not breaking up with me,” John says.

“Do you want me to?” 

“No!” John covers his mouth and blushes because that was a little loud.

“Well, okay then. Let's work it out.”

“I love you,” John blurts.

Mary smiles and holds out a hand, palm up. John stares at her blankly.

“I'll have my tenner now,” she says.

* * * * * * * * * * *

John hugs Mary to his chest. “You have been so cool about Sherlock and everything. I had sort of given up on having relationships,” John admits.

“I like him. He's good for you,” Mary says.

John huffs. “He's a prat to you.” 

“Well, it may seem that way, but. . .” Mary hesitates.

“But what?”

She shrugs. “I think he's figuring out how to share.”

John throws his head back and laughs again. Mary bounces up and down on his chest and giggles. “Sherlock? Sharing? Really?” 

“He cares about you, you know.”

“Yeah,” concedes John, “but he's crap at sharing and boundaries and all that stuff.”

“He doesn't want to break your heart,” Mary says.

“You're my heart,” John says, kissing the top of her head.

“I know, but you're his.”

* * * * * * * * * *

SOMETHING LIKE SIX MONTHS AGO

“Sherlock, I swear, if you don't stop that bloody screeching I'm going to piss in your violin case.”

The horrible screeching abruptly stops and Sherlock scrunches his nose. “John, that's disgusting.”

“Then play some actual music or something. You're giving me a headache.”

Sherlock sighs and throws himself into his chair. “Can't. Too bored.” He starts tapping the violin bow against his head, leaving tiny trails of powdered rosin in his curls. 

John's in his chair, pecking away at his laptop, answering emails and comments on his blog. “Experiments?” he suggests, halfheartedly.

“Maybe,” Sherlock says, non-comittally, with another dramatic sigh.

An instant message distracts John from the conversation.

_MnM: Hey, you busy?_

_Watson72: Not really :)_

_MnM: Wanna do something?_

John hesitates and shoots a quick glance at Sherlock, who has finally noticed what he's been doing and is trying to shake the sticky rosin out of his hair. It's time, he decides.

_Watson72: Yeah, you should come over._

_MnM: Your crazy flatmate there?_

_Watson72: Yes, and he's BORED. I thought maybe we could play a game or something?_

_MnM: You want me to hang out with you and Sherlock? Are you sure?_

_Watson72: He has to deal with the fact that I have a girlfriend eventually. Can you handle it? I know he's kind of a dick. . ._

_MnM: Ha! I can handle him._

_Watson72: I love you._

_MnM: Be there in 15._

_Watson72: I LOVE YOU._

_MnM: You better :P_

John smiles.

Sherlock scoffs, having deduced everything he needs to know from that single smile. “I suppose you're going out with Mary, then?”

“No, I invited her over. I thought we could play a game.”

Sherlock groans. “I think I'd rather you urinate in my violin case.” 

John spears Sherlock with a painfully familiar long-suffering glare and shakes a finger at the man. “Don't be a dick.”

Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms. “I want a cup of tea,” he says with his nose in the air.

Imperious git! But Sherlock doesn't argue about Mary's visit, so John relents and goes to make tea.

-

Mary arrives and settles on the sofa next to John after a quick peck on his cheek. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” she says.

Sherlock sighs. “Hello.”

“So,” says Mary, “what games do you two like to play?”

“We could play Cluedo,” Sherlock suggests with a small smile at John.

“No! No way, never again, Sherlock!”

Sherlock sniggers. 

“Berk,” John grumbles.

“Trivial Pursuit?”

“Sherlock, there's no point, you've memorized all the answers.”

“I haven't memorized, them, John, I just _know_ them,” he says, “well, except the sports and telly trivia. Those I memorized.”

“How do you gents feel about poker?” Mary suggests.

Sherlock's eyes light up.

“No, Mary, that's a really bad. . .”

“Oh, no, John, that's an excellent idea!” Sherlock leaps out of his seat and starts digging around the bookshelf for a deck of cards.

John gives Mary his best puppy dog eyes. “He's the most observant man in Britain. You may as well just give him your money.” 

Mary just winks at him. “Oh ye of little faith!”

John shrugs. “Okay fine, but don't say I didn't warn you.” He stretches and stands up. “Can I get you something before we start? Tea?”

“Beer?”

“Yeah, sure, I have a few bottles left, I think,” he gestures to the mantle, “there's also a really nice bottle of scotch if you want.”

Mary snorts and makes a face. “If I wanted to drink a bog I'd go down on your sister. Beer, thanks!”

“Mary!” John gapes at her.

He hears a quiet squeak and turns around just in time to see Sherlock trying to choke back a laugh. 

“Jesus Christ,” John mutters, and stalks into the kitchen.

“So,” Mary says, “Fifty quid sound about right for stakes?”

-

The game is almost over, John's been out for almost half an hour, and Sherlock is all in. He smirks and lays down his cards. “Straight!” he declares triumphantly.

Mary bites her lip, flashes Sherlock a shit-eating grin, and turns her cards around revealing pocket tens. “I could be wrong, but I think that's a full house. Tens over sevens.”

Sherlock's jaw drops. “But you were bluffing! I know you were bluffing.”

“Was I?” says Mary, rubbing a hand through her shoulder length blonde hair and favoring Sherlock with another shit-eating grin.  
Sherlock's mouth forms that perfect “O” usually reserved for case insights. “You were faking a tell,” he whispers.

“So were you,” Mary rubs her thigh in an exaggerated motion and rolls her eyes.

“Did you. . .did you just beat Sherlock Holmes at poker?” John says. 

“Yep, and I did it half pissed. Pay up, boys!” 

John digs out his wallet and sighs again. Why did he agree to stake fifty quid? Fifty! Ludicrous. 

Sherlock just stares at Mary and steeples his fingers under his chin. 

-

John wakes up the next morning curled around Mary in his own bed.

“Hey,” she says, nuzzling into his chest.

“Tea?”

Mary grumbles something incoherent and throws an arm and a leg over him, pulling him closer. She isn't a morning person, his Mary.

“Come on, love, we have to get up sometime.”

“Cuddle,” she mumbles.

“Tea?” John suggests again.

“Fuck tea,” she says, and snakes a hand down to grab his morning stiffy, which he'd been trying to be a bloody gentleman about. 

Fuck tea, indeed.

-

Sated and hazy, they finally wander down to the kitchen. John puts the kettle on.

“You like milk, right? I'll get the mil. . .”

“No Mary wait!” but John's reaction time is dulled from morning sex and lack of tea and he's too late. 

Mary opens the fridge. For a moment, she just stares into it and blinks, then she extracts a jar of human eyes and holds it out to John. “Are these good jellied on toast?”

John loses it. He whoops so hard he is sure they can hear him at the Yard. 

“Oh god, Mary,” he wheezes, “Oh god. I love you.”

Mary puts the eyeballs back in the fridge and gets the milk. She sets it on the counter next to John and kisses him on the nose. “I love you too, John Watson, mad flatmate and all.”

It's the first time she's said it back.

-

He and Mary share a lazy morning and are eventually joined by Sherlock in his pajamas and dressing gown, who surprises John by playing a lovely and familiar tune on his violin.

“Hmm, Vivaldi,” Mary says when he's through. She's laying on John's lap on the sofa, fiddling with facebook on her phone.

“I'm told it's considered romantic,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, I guess. Know any, I dunno, Led Zepplin?”

Sherlock smirks and launches into an inspired rendition of “Kashmir” on the violin. 

Mary applauds when he's done. “Holy shit, that was brilliant! I thought I was just taking the piss!”

Sherlock preens at her praise. “Any other requests?”

“2pac?” Mary suggests.

“Who?” Sherlock draws his brows together and frowns. 

“Oh well,” she says, “can't win em all.”

-

Eventually Mary has to leave for football practice. She plays on a local pickup league every Saturday, and though she frequently invites John to join her he's a much better Rugby player and usually declines. Sometimes he watches her games, but today he's more in the mood to bum around the flat and watch telly, so he just kisses her at the door and meanders back up the stairs to the sitting room.

John leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “Well?” he says to Sherlock, who has managed to steal his laptop while he walked Mary out.

“Well, what?”

“You like her.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Hardly. You can do better.”

“No I can't, she's perfect.”

“Nobody's perfect,” Sherlock says, and John isn't entirely sure, but he thinks he detects a hint of sadness in the lines around his eyes.

-

After that, Mary spends more time in the flat. The longer she hangs around the more Sherlock tests her, but Mary Morstan is not afraid to go toe to toe with Sherlock Holmes.

One morning, John offers to make breakfast while Mary gets a shower, but he drops the spatula when he hears a shriek from the bathroom. 

“Mary, are you okay?” he shouts.

She runs past him holding a. . .is that an arm? 

Mary kicks open Sherlock's door and barges in. “Wake up you inconsiderate prick!” 

John hears a dull thud and Sherlock's spluttered “What?”

Another thud, and John's feet finally catch up with his shock. 

“I have to be at work in half an hour, so you get your arse out of bed and get the dismembered corpse out of the tub!”

John arrives at the door just in time to see her swing the arm at Sherlock's head again.

“Stop that!” Sherlock thunders.

Mary smacks him again, hard. Sherlock tries to grab the arm but misses.

“John, she's your girlfriend. Stop her!”

John laughs. “If I were you, mate, I'd clean the tub.”

-

Eventually, Mary and Sherlock settle into a habit of screaming at each other once in a while. At first John is worried, but Mary seems to enjoy the opportunity to yell at something besides football, and Sherlock. . .well Sherlock isn't bored.

* * * * * * * * * *

The sun is finally setting, and John screws up his courage. 

“Mary,” he says, “you're perfect.” 

“Nobody's perfect,” she says, unintentionally echoing Sherlock's earlier response.

“Well you're perfect for me,” John says.

Mary smiles and stands up to fold their blanket. John rolls off onto the grass and decides the moment is perfect, so he pushes up to one knee and pulls out the ring box.

“Marry me?” John opens the box and holds it up to her. It's not a fancy ring, only half a karat, but Mary's never cared about that sort of thing anyway.

“Oh!” Mary drops the blanket and falls to her knees in front of him. She throws her arms around him and kisses him breathless. 

“So, um, is that a yes?” John says when he finally has his breath back.

Mary smiles and takes the box, but she closes it and pops it in her jacket pocket. “Probably, but I have to check on something first.”

John's heart sinks. He'd been so certain. “What?”

“Do you trust me?” Mary strokes his cheek.

“Yes?”

“Okay, then let's go back to your flat, but we need to stop at mine first.” 

-

Sherlock is waiting for them when they get back to the flat. He's dressed in a fresh suit and staring into the cold fireplace.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” he says, voice flat, not looking at either John or Mary.

“Not yet,” says Mary, and she puts John's ring box on the coffee table. Then she places a hand over John's heart and whispers, “Trust me.”

Then Mary, his Mary, swallows nervously and walks over to Sherlock's chair. She falls to one knee and pulls out another box, opening to reveal a simple gold band.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she says, voice shaking a little, “will you be my metamour?” 

Sherlock's eyes snap to hers immediately, but she does not look away. “I. . .what?”

John is entirely lost. What the fuck is a metamour? Is that French? Has there been something going on between Mary and Sherlock this entire time? Sherlock wouldn't do that. It's impossible. He doesn't even _like_ women. Does he?

“Look at John, he's freaking out. Say yes so you can help me explain it to him.”

“I think you have the wrong idea about my relationship with John.”

“I don't think I do,” Mary says, “You may not be shagging or snogging in corners, but you're clearly a package deal and I'm signing up.”

“I. You. Oh my god.” Sherlock closes his eyes, looks up at the ceiling through his eyelids, and finally opens them and looks back down at Mary. “You have no idea what you're talking about, you poor moron.” 

Mary takes the ring out of the box and holds it out to him. “Read the inscription,” she says, softly.

Sherlock holds the ring up to catch the light. Squints. After a moment his lips quirk up at the corners.

“Mary Morstan, you are the Queen of Hearts, and I would be honored to be your metamour.” Sherlock leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“What the bloody hell is a metamour?” John glances wide eyed from one to the other.

Mary takes the other box off the coffee table and slips on John's ring. “Yes, John Watson, I will marry you. A metamour is the lover of my lover, which is what Sherlock is. Wouldn't you agree that's pretty important?”

“Uh, sure,” says John, “except Sherlock isn't my lover?”

“Isn't he, though? Do you really want to move away, live without him? Give up running around London like lunatics? He's more than your best mate. It's obvious to everyone but you, and you didn't even think to ask him how he felt about you getting married, did you?”

“Well, no, but it's not really about him, and I'll miss those things, but I want to build a life with _you_ , Mary. It's important to me, very important.”

“Yeah, but why do you have to choose?”

“Because, because. . .” John doesn't know how to answer. He doesn't have a good answer, actually, except that it's what he expected marriage to be like, and he's starting to realize that Mary doesn't give a fig about what's expected, and he really should have known better.

“Look, I'm not going to make you two idiots declare your love for each other, but can you both at least agree that it would break both of your hearts to end what you have now so John can run off and nest with me like a good little newlywed?”

John finally meets Sherlock's eyes and is surprised to see they're a little glassy. “Yes,” he says, “yes, that's true.”

“Agreed,” says Sherlock, voice a bit more gravelly than usual. “John, when you left today, I thought,” he pauses and draws a shuddering breath, “I thought it was all over. You were leaving me. Maybe not today, but once you were married. It would have. . .” Sherlock takes a deep breath and stops.

“Would have what?” John is starting to feel like an arse for not considering Sherlock's feelings about this. Most people assume he doesn't have any, but John should know better.

“It would have broken my heart,” Sherlock whispers, “I _need_ you, John. You have no idea how much.” 

John hasn't seen this kind of vulnerability on Sherlock's face since the incident at the swimming pool. He feels like he should give him a hug, or something, but that's a bit weird. 

“Sherlock, I swear, I didn't know.”

“I know, John. I'm not really one for discussing that sort of thing, and I'd already prepared myself for you leaving eventually. I am. . .relieved.”

“Well apparently, I'm not leaving,” John glances at Mary, who has settled comfortably onto the sofa, and she nods and smiles at him, “so how's that supposed to work, then?”

“Ah,” she says, “I'm so glad you asked! Sit down. Sherlock come over here. Let's negotiate.”

John groans. Another one of Mary's negotiations. “We just got engaged!” he protests, “that's not very romantic.”

Sherlock leaves his chair and settles onto the floor. He props his head on the coffee table in front of the sofa. 

Mary cocks her head at John. “What could be more romantic than planning a marriage?” 

“You want to start planning our wedding right now?” 

Mary rolls her eyes. “I didn't say 'wedding,' I said 'marriage.'”

John sits down beside her on the sofa. “I think I'm just going to shut up and listen for a while. I'm totally lost.” 

Mary pats him on the head. “That's fine dear. Some girls fantasize about their wedding to their lover, I fantasized about my marriage. And the more I thought about it, the more I dreamt up scenarios in my head, the more I realized that you would never, ever, be happy without him. Eventually I just started writing him into the script, and I realized it could actually work.”

“You should move in,” Sherlock says. 

“I agree. How would you feel about turning the flat downstairs into your study so there's a bit more space for three of us?”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “221C might need a little work first, but I think that could work. I'm sure Ms. Hudson wouldn't mind.”

“John, are you okay with sharing a room?”

“'Course. Wait, you mean with you, right?”

Sherlock and Mary both chuckle. 

“Yes, with me,” Mary says.

“Oh, yes, definitely!”

“What about children?” Sherlock says, “John wants children. You love children.”

“I'm amenable to the idea,” says Mary, “but not right away. We'd definitely have to move out and find a new place though.”

“Ah,” says Sherlock, suddenly finding something fascinating to stare at on the floor. 

Mary doesn't miss his shift in mood. She puts out a hand and lifts his chin to stare into his eyes. “Sherlock, you should assume, unless you are told otherwise, that when I say 'we' it includes you.”

“Uh,” Sherlock says, eyes going glassy again, “I need a moment. I'll just. . .” he leaps to his feet and dashes down the hall to his room.

John looks after him, concerned. “Should I. . .?”

“Just give him a moment. Meanwhile, c'mere.” Mary settles against the arm of the sofa and pulls John into her arms. “You okay?”

“My head is spinning,” John admits, “I'm sort of confused but also relieved? The thought of leaving him, it did hurt. A lot.”

“Yeah well, I've never asked you to choose between us before, so why would I start now?”

“Dunno, that's just how these things usually work.” 

“Sod that,” Mary huffs.

“So, what is this exactly? Are we all getting married to each other or what?” 

“Sort of,” Mary says, “I mean, obviously we can do that legally, but we would be making a commitment to build a life together, the three of us.” 

“And you want to do that? With Sherlock? Are you sure?”

“Pretty damn sure. Bought a ring and everything.”

“Yeah, about that? How did you know?”

“I noticed you getting sort of moony every time we passed a jewelry store. It wasn't a big leap. As for Sherlock, like I said, I fantasized and realized he was essential. I thought I should do something for him, just in case. If you'd proposed a week earlier, I would have just had to wing it without the ring, but the ring was a nice touch, don't you think?”

“It really was. You're amazing. Incredible. Beyond anything I could ever have hoped to deserve in my life. I've never seen Sherlock like that before either. The Queen of Hearts! Oh my god. I think you broke him.”

“I didn't break him. I think it's just been a long time since anyone considered his feelings, if ever. It's kind of sad, really.”

“Yeah,” says John, “most people don't even think he has feelings.”

“Most people are idiots.”

John laughs. “He says that all the time.”

Mary grins. “I'm not surprised.”

“What did the inscription say?”

“Hmm, I think I'll let him tell you that when he's ready.”

-

Sherlock doesn't even make it back to his room before the first tears fall, but he is well down the hall so neither John nor Mary see them anyway. They aren't the first tears Sherlock has cried today; he already cried for the loss of John, telling himself he was pathetic but unable to stop himself. It was so obvious what John was planning when he left with the picnic basket that afternoon. It took Sherlock hours to pull himself together and wait for John to return. John's happiness was important, even if it meant him leaving.

Everything was going just as he expected, and when John walked in the door with Mary Sherlock waited for the hammer to fall and finish shattering his heart. 

But it didn't. That girl, that brilliant, tiny, infuriating girl, had looked into his heart and seen everything already. And then she had offered him the only thing he wanted more than murders and puzzles: A lifetime with John. And then she offered him the promise of more: a family. 

Until today, Sherlock had given up on all of that. Nobody would want that with a person like him, and he rather liked being the sort of person he was, so it seemed irrational to even bother wanting any of it. He had the work, and he had John for the moment, and it was more than enough. 

And this? This is too much. This is more than he can take without years of secret hope he didn't even know he'd kept hold of spilling over onto his cheeks and down his face onto his trousers. 

Sherlock has known for a long time that he loves John, but he thinks, maybe, he might love Mary Morstan just a bit too.

He wipes his eyes and fumbles with the ring in his palm. He looks at the inscription again:

_I know your heart, idiot._

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't beg for comments, but I'd love to hear what you think about this one. I don't reference polyamory *specifically* in the story, but in my head that's what Mary is. Did it come across well? Could I have written it better? 
> 
> I know there's a much longer conversation the three of them need to have. I may use this OT3 as a soapbox for my commentary on polyamory in the future, but for now I just wanted to get them together and make a few points about what love actually means.


End file.
